16:30 Psychosis
by sapphyrraven
Summary: 16:30 Psychosis For coolgleekazoid who prompted schizophrenic Blaine. Details: season 5 and also voices, screaming, crying, freaking out and hallucinating and nobody knows. Make it very blangsty. Please note that this fic contains detailed descriptions of Depression and Schizophrenia and may be triggering for some people.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Title is based on Sarah Kane's play **4:48 Psychosis**.

Please note that this fic contains detailed descriptions of _Depression_ and _Schizophrenia_ and may be triggering for some people.

* * *

Things had been getting better – he had started to feel a bit more positive, a bit more energetic, a bit more interested… He put it down to things improving with Kurt – they were engaged and, yes, being in a long-distance relationship still sucked (that had not changed), but this time Blaine had felt more positive about the whole thing. It helped that his fiancé wore the physical proof of their pledge to each other on the ring finger of his left hand, and Blaine spent every opportunity discretely watching it as Kurt spoke during their Skype dates. It also helped that he saw Kurt relatively frequently and that they had broken the back, so to speak, of the majority of time they had to remain apart by now. Every day past was another day closer to the day when Blaine would move to New York and Kurt.

He tried not to let himself pin all of his future hopes and dreams on New York (and Kurt) – he knew that doing so was unhealthy and had been a large part of the problem last time, but it had been easy to lose himself in planning the perfect proposal. The distraction had consumed him and all of his spare time (not that he actually had a lot of it - between being class president, all of his extracurricular activities, and his actual school work), and now there was a vast nothingness.

And that was the problem.

It felt a bit like sinking at the start and it was so gradual that he never noticed it happen – it was as if little bits of joy simply slipped away from him each day. He found it more and more difficult to concentrate in his classes – his mind wandered easily and he found himself wandering down irregular and bizarre mental pathways with no real clue where he had been trying to go originally. He was tired all the time which was not like him at all – he used to have so much energy, but now, no matter how much sleep he managed to get, it was never restful. He found himself gradually, gradually, gradually descending into a haze of numb and lacklustre antipathy and he could not find the energy to do much other than attempt to overcompensate at school. He put all of his focus into maintaining the front so that, by the time he got home, he had time to sleep until his Skype dates with Kurt. He had to force himself to get up each morning and go to school despite knowing that he had things that he should be excited about coming up – Nationals being one of them.

He tries to keep the dark thoughts at bay by replacing them with positive ones, but they are strong, and they talk sense. It gets harder to remember _truths_. It gets harder to remember good things. It gets harder not to listen.

_But you have friends. _

_You have a lot of friends. _

_What do you offer your friends to make them stay? _

_What do you offer your friends? _

_What do you offer? _

Sometimes it does not feel like anything at all. On those days he cannot leave his bed. On those days he cannot sleep. On those days he is irritable and lethargic. On those days he struggles alone against the dark words. He tries to write his thoughts down – to try to make sense of them. The patterns alarm him and, later, upon re-reading them, he is unable to tell which thoughts are true or which are his.

_I am sad _

_I am broken_

_I am pathetic_

_I am worthless_

_I am unlovable_

_I am talentless_

_I am a fraud_

After Kurt first went to New York Blaine tried to distract himself – he does not regret helping Kurt leave at all (he knows, even now – even then! – that it was the right thing to do). Clubs and school work and mini-projects and missions all occupied him, but beneath it all a darkness festered. Whispering. Whispering. Gnawing away at his self-confidence and replacing it with a constant sick feeling. It felt like guilt.

_You are not worthy of his love, you know._

_ No wonder he is moving on without you – he's in New York. There are _thousands _of men in New York. Better men. Worthy men. Men who can satisfy him. Men who _are_ satisfying him._

Stop it!

_Why? Can't handle the truth?_

_ Because it is not the truth._

_ What is then?_

He understands now, of course he does – Kurt was overwhelmed by New York and Vogue and NYADA. Of course he would prioritise those things.

_You should have been able to handle things by yourself._

It's not an excuse. No. Never an excuse – but it was a contributing factor, certainly.

_If he doesn't pick up he doesn't love you._

_ You are not worthy of his love._

_ If he blows you off again you know the truth…_

_ What truth?_

_ That he has outgrown you._

He had not realised how vital it is to him to have physicality in his relationships. But he knows that now – understands that. When he can be distracted by flesh, reminded by skin – held and kissed and reassured – and allowed to remind; to hold, to kiss, to whisper sweet nothings against sweaty skin – it is then that he is at peace.

He knows that like he knows that breathing is vital.

But he did it again.

Because he is worth it.

Because Blaine can do this.

He can.

He can do it for Kurt.

He can do it for himself.

Because Kurt deserves better.

_No._

Because he deserves Kurt.

_Better._

* * *

He is not completely sure what happened – Principal Sue mentioned that there had been a gas leak or something – but it did something. Released something.

He had been struggling again – the pressure of _finals_, and Nationals, and his NYADA audition all rising up, as things often do, at once. A hydra. The dark had started to creep back in, but this time he knew better. This time he could mask its effects. He could not let it get to him.

He forced himself to go in to school.

_They need you. You have the experience and the talent to lead the New Directions to their second consecutive Nationals victory. You can do this. You aced your NYADA audition. You can do this. They need you._

So when his enthusiasm and passion had been rejected by the other members of the New Directions he had not been in the right state of mind to let it slide off him, or to let himself think things through rationally – to realise he had come on too strong.

_That's what you get for overcompensating._

_ That's what you get for caring._

_ No._

His reaction had been to call Kurt, because if anybody _got_ Blaine, it was his fiancé.

It had not gone well.

His mind latched on to phrases – twisting them, warping them. Echoes in his hollow state of mind.

_Puppet Master._

_ Hah! Kurt thinks you are manipulative. You must be._

Replaying sinuous strings of their conversation – fragments diffracting the truth until he could not take any more, he had retreated to the relative safety of the choir room.

His first hallucination had been oddly enjoyable – the puppet versions of his friends had been welcoming, accepting and loving of him and for the first time in weeks he had felt something close to peaceful. In hindsight he suspected that the gas had something to do with that but the only gas he could think of that would be piped through the school was natural gas and that was not a hallucinogen. So it could not have been the gas could it?

He had attempted to turn the experiences into something positive he could focus on in the real world and had dedicated all of his spare time to making puppets of all of his friends. It had worked for a while – making the puppets was cathartic and he had actually enjoyed trying to trap the essence of each person in felt, foam and yarn.

His parents had looked a little concerned but they had not said anything. It was better than the alternative though, right?

It had been a natural progression to try to talk to the puppets. He knew that they were not real – he was not _crazy_ – but they allowed him to think clearly, for once. Talking _with_ them allowed him to talk though things that concerned him –

Kurt's opinion of him. Forgiveness. The puppet master comment…

The vaporape incident with Tina.

- and allowed him to _voice_ the other half of the conversation without the darkness. Without the judgement. Without offending anyone. Without argument.

Helping Principal Sue up had been a mistake – it had resulted in the second-worst panic attack that he had ever experienced (the first being during the shooting-that-was-not-an-actual-shooting-but-sure-as-hell-felt-real-enough-at-the-time).

He had been compelled to risk everything to retrieve the Kurt puppet – but Sue had caught him anyway.

He had never ever had a detention before. A year ago he would have been devastated, shaking with failure and disappointment and fear. Now, he could barely feel anything, drained as he was after his earlier episode.

It left him weakened.

He hated confrontation. He hated arguments. He would much rather fix everything – sacrificing his own happiness to ensure that everyone else was happy. It kept life easy. So calling Kurt to let him down when he _needed _him was something Blaine could not bring himself to do. He tried to come up with a way around it – but he knew that was futile. Every excuse he could think of was not good enough – each sounded pathetic and hollow. _How_ do you explain to your fiancé that the reason you cannot support them is because you got caught stealing back a puppet of them you made in craft class after a hallucination where everyone was a puppet?

The panic devoured him.

He had called, eventually. He had had to. He had left it until the very last minute – doggedly delaying the inevitable, knowing that Kurt would be _disappointed_.

_And so he should be. You are nothing but disappointing. A pathetic child who plays with puppets. Who plays at life. Who do you think you are? He trusted you again. He trusted you and you let him down. Again._

At least this way he could not be on the phone long as the concert was due to start.

It had not gone well.

_What did you expect?_

Later, much later – it was not like he could actually sleep after that conversation – he found that he could not actually recall the details of the conversation. He saw puppet Kurt clearly in his mind's eye during the conversation – he recalled that much. It felt like he had had the argument with the puppet instead of his fiancé.

_You are losing it, Anderson._

When it had happened for a third time (the second time outside the choir room) he had been nowhere near the gas. The experience had been similar to the pervious hallucination in the choir room – pleasant. He had been aware that it was not real at the time, but it had been hugely preferable to the negativity and the floating darkness of the reality.

At night he longs for the puppet-world - their company is pleasant at least. They do not judge him. They love him as he is. He stays awake as long as he can – it is not like he will awaken rested even if he does manage to sleep – conversing with puppets (both real and inanimate, and those that appear in the darkness at once solid and false). Eventually he knows he will lose and the darkness will come back.

He tries to listen to music once the lights are off – something to drown out the deafening silence of the house after dark.

The darkness creeps in anyway. Unbidden.

_I feel that the future is hopeless and that things cannot improve _

_Kurt hates me_

_I let him down_

_I let everyone down_

_I am bored and dissatisfied with everything _

_I _want_ to feel again_

_I want to be able to look forward to things_

_I cannot recall what happy feels like_

_I don't want to feel guilty all the time_

_I am a complete failure as a person _

_I am guilty, I am being punished _

_I am a disgusting person_

_I am a cheater_

_It is a black mark on my soul_

_I would like to kill myself _

_I'm too much of a coward to do it_

_No. I love my family too much to put them through that_

_Am I brave to continue?_

_I should be put down_

_I used to be able to cry but now I am beyond tears _

_I have lost interest in other people _

_I have replaced them with puppets. What does that say about me?_

_I should be on medication_

_I am terrified of medication _

_I can't make decisions _

_I can't eat _

_I can't sleep _

_I can't think _

_I cannot overcome my loneliness, my fear, my disgust _

_At myself_

_At my actions_

_At my state of being_

_I am disgusted by my own body_

_I cannot love _

_I cannot make love _

_I cannot fuck _

_I cannot be alone _

_I cannot be with others _

_I should not be with others_

_I have nothing to give_

_I should be alone_

* * *

It bubbles below the surface throughout the day – gently lapping at his subconscious, a constant reminder of failure and disappointment.

_Shame shame shame. _

_Drown in your fucking shame. _

He has not slept properly in days/weeks/months/years – he cannot be sure anymore. Vision blurs and twists, and he has finally drained the last of his energy. He cannot bring himself to care.

Tina had caught him with the 'Tina' puppet – he had felt shamed into giving them to their 'real' selves. He had even sent Kurt to the 'real' Kurt in New York…

_Don't you mean – 'Kurt' to the real Kurt?_

_ The puppet was tangible in this nonsense of distance and drama…_

…together with the puppet NY crew. It was supposed to make him feel better. It had, briefly. Watching his friends and the people play…

…_you are losing your grip…_

…had been nice. Seeing the joy on their faces – the delight…it had been nice knowing that he had done that. That he had been responsible for their pleasure.

But it had faded.

_Everything fades. Everything dies. Everything leaves._

_And no one notices._

_No one cares._

_ Why should they?_

* * *

He tries to talk to Kurt again. Again instigating the call. Again trying to maintain his sense of self. His sense of reality.

_Losing your grip._

_ Losing your mind?_

But Kurt is distracted.

_He has more important things to think about. _

He snaps. He does not mean to, and part of him cheers.

_At least you're not a push-over!_

But Kurt is sharper than he is – his tongue is razor keen through years of bullying and torment.

_You suffered too, Blaine. You suffered too. But you took it. Like the bitch you are._

His palms are sweating so badly he almost drops the phone, but he takes Kurt's anger. He takes it.

_Good boy._

When he finally hangs up, exhausted, he does not sleep. He dares not sleep. He spends all night composing an apologetic e-mail – excuses, excuses, excuses and begging for forgiveness.

_You make me sick. He's got you so whipped – he's the one who was in the wrong this time and what do you do? You take it. You apologise. You grovel._

**Pathetic.**

He almost jumps the voice is so real. It is not his voice. It is not Kurt's voice. It is not a voice he is familiar with at all. It is not whispered. It is clear as day. Its origin – less than a foot to his right.

He falls from the bed in panic.

He searches.

He finds no one.

He is alone.

He is alone.

He is alone.

**Your truth, your lies, not mine.**

* * *

**A/N**: If you have been affected by anything here and would like to talk about it please contact me. My ask is always open. 3


	2. Chapter 2

For coolgleekazoid who prompted schizophrenic Blaine. Details: season 5 and also voices, screaming, crying, freaking out and hallucinating and nobody knows. Make it very blangsty.

**A/N**: Title is based on Sarah Kane's play _4:48 Psychosis_.

Please note that this fic contains detailed descriptions of Depression and Schizophrenia and may be triggering for some people.

* * *

_After 16:30 I shall not speak again. _

It always seems worse in the afternoons – when he is tired from the day, and surrounded by people whose opinions of him he still cares about. After the first time he heard the voice, he had been convinced that someone had set him up – or perhaps his phone had accidentally dialled someone and ended up on loudspeaker – or, perhaps, he was on the Truman Show… Breathing heavily, his mind racing, he had attempted to rationalise. There were no missed calls or recently dialled calls on his phone so that was not it – also, it was not a voice he knew so no way he would have their number. He searched his room for bugs and webcams but found no sign of any.

He fixated on the possibility that none of _this_ was real. That he was actually the star of a television show. That everyone he loved was actually an actor.

In the stark night it seemed suddenly so obvious.

He was cold to his 'parents' the next morning – partly because he wanted to see if they would crack, but they were consummate actors. Instead, they seemed concerned. He brushed them off.

His lessons flew by – for some reason, the trick to making the day go quickly seems to be to completely zone out. What was the point in paying attention anyway? None of it was real.

The New Directions each had their own dramas – _subplots_ his mind provided – so barely noticed his presence at all.

_ I sing without hope on the boundary..._

He had no idea where that thought came from.

* * *

At night he finds himself unable to sleep even though he is exhausted both physically and mentally. His thoughts are like ants – in their thousands – running over his limbs, making his skin itch and crawl. He scratches his skin until it bleeds – itching it feels good. Itching is relaxing.

He calls Kurt – more as a distraction than a scheduled contact. There is a small part of him that _hopes_ that his fiancé, his beautiful, sexy fiancé, is not in on whatever game everyone else is playing with him. The phone rings endlessly.

Blaine rings off because Kurt is at his door.

(He is not really there)

He knows that it is not real, but it calms him to see his fiancé in the flesh. It does not feel strange – it feels like it had with the puppets. He is not scared.

(You should be scared)

'Sometimes I turn around and catch the smell of you – and it _kills _me. It kills me that I'm not with you. That I'm still stuck in Ohio and you're in New York. I can't wait until I'm there with you. I can't wait until I'm with you.'

(Silence)

'Kurt? '

(Silence)

'Kurt, please talk to me. I need you.'

(Silence)

'I need you to breathe. It hurts so fucking much.'

Part of him -

(A small part)

- is glad that 'Kurt' does not speak.

* * *

'You know, I really feel like I'm being manipulated.'

The rest of the New Directions stare at him like he is the one who is not real. He laughs at them but they seem confused by his outburst. As if it has not been lurking in the background for weeks, _months._ Their voices erupt at once, buzzing, buzzing, furious hornets, and he cannot think through the tirade. A scream pierces through the din – he has no idea whose it was, but his lungs burn and his throat is sandpaper raw. The following silence is louder than the voices that preceded it. It is pregnant – heavy, and unwieldy and he cannot breathe.

He's not sure how he got home – it is only 16:30...

* * *

He sits in the back row and listens – not to the singing, no, there's no subtlety in the messages behind the chosen songs. He listens to what they don't say through words. The looks. The body language.

**You were right.**

The justification feels like redemption. He feels light. He can breathe again.

'Thank you.'

* * *

'Dude, something's up with Blaine.'

'Hi to you too, Sam.'

'Seriously. You need to get your ass on a plane, because he's losing it – or he's lost it, I'm not sure -'

'Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. What's going on?'

'Blaine. He's, like, all talking to himself, and saying weird stuff -'

'Like what?'

'That he's being manipulated. He's talking to himself – or not at all – and it's not normal behaviour for him.'

'I'll call him.'

'He's stopped singing –'

'I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm booking tickets as we speak.'

'Thank you – we are all freaking out. We didn't know what else to do. Had you noticed anything?'

'He's been a little odd… I mean, the puppets-'

'Don't dis the puppets – those things are awesome.'

'They're weird, Sam. Right, I have to go – I need to pack and get to the airport. I'll be there tonight, OK?'

'OK.'

'Thanks, Sam.'

'What for?'

'For looking out for him.'

'He's my bro.'

'Thank you.'

* * *

**They are all right about you.**

The change in tone takes him by surprise. He looks around the room for the source of the voice – a futile exercise, he knows, but it is a reflex – as much a part of him as breathing.

Shaking, he walks faster – out of the empty class room. Away from the voice.

**You are pathetic. Running away like a scared child.**

How is it still following him? His heart is racing and his vision blurred. He darts into another class room – thankfully it is empty. But why is it so loud?

He sinks to the floor.

**Crybaby. Useless, good for nothing, crybaby. Pathetic. You really are. No wonder they don't like you. No wonder he doesn't love you. Who could love you? Who could love ****_you_****?**

He tries to breathe. He puts his hands over his ears and hums loudly but nothing helps. Nothing helps.

**_16:28_**

The clock marches time forwards, unceasing, uncaring.

**_16:29_**

The voices fade a little – the volume turned down slowly.

**_16:30_**

He can breathe again. He knows he only has a little time. A little time now until they return. It is as if, at this time, he stumbles across some interference which messes with the signal and his reward is blessed peace. A brief flicker of hope. A taste of normality, of _before_.

Clockwork – an hour and twelve minutes of blessed sanity. Crystal clarity when he can see how sick his mind is. How twisted things have become. He is terrified in those moments. Shaking, scared, alone. He considers seeking help – perhaps his mother, a doctor, or Kurt. Could they still love him if they knew?

He feels as if he lives for an hour and twelve minutes a day. His life is in sips.

**_16:50_**

Drawing control of his limbs he stands and makes it to his car without incident – without seeing anyone he knows. He does not have the strength today to talk. He never has the strength to talk after 16:30.

He drives on autopilot – his mind is preoccupied with other things.

**_17:20_**

His sanctuary, his room, is quiet. He has long since removed every and all clocks except for one – a digital clock, silent, and unobtrusive. The digits burn his retinas and his heart races.

**_17:21_**

Nesting in bed, as a child creates a fort against the monsters, Blaine shivers. His monsters are very real, but a physical fort holds no comfort. It holds no protection.

During his brief respite from darkness he knows he is losing his mind – each delusion, each degrading thought shines false in the harsh light of his clarity. He grabs a pen and paper and writes his truths:

I love Kurt.

Kurt loves me.

The New Directions are my friends.

They value me as a person.

My parents care about me.

I have a lot of friends.

_What do you give your friends that makes them so supportive?_

The thought is dull but there – an echo.

**_17:35_**

He takes a calming breath, then another. He is dimly aware that his phone is ringing – he can hear the buzzing in the back of his mind, but he cannot talk now. He cannot be trusted to talk now.

He lets it go unanswered.

**_17:40_**

Two minutes. Two minutes before his darkness takes over leaving him in fragments – a puppet with no stings, a grotesque fool – trapped in his own half-truths and delusions.

_ Why do you believe me then and not now? _

**_17:41_**

_Stop judging by appearances and make a right judgement. _

**_17:42_**

The buzzing begins again – is it still his phone? He cannot be certain. He was supposed to be at practice – but that was _before_.

_Why won't the buzzing stop? _

_Why do they keep calling me?_

**They don't care about you.**

**It's all right. You will get better. **

**Your disbelief cures nothing. **

_Look away from me. _

He pulls the blanket over his head because he does not want to see _him_. He does not deserve to see the image of the one person in this mess who is worth so much more than Blaine can give. He is not worthy. He is not worthy to eat the crumbs from under his table. He is not worthy…

A voice mumbles.

'Cut out my tongue, tear out my hair, cut off my limbs, but leave me my love. I would rather have lost my legs, pulled out my teeth, gouged out my eyes, than lost my love…'

A half-forgotten chant.

He does not expect the blanket to be pulled from him. The light is on – he did not leave it on.

_I'm seeing things _

_I'm hearing things _

_I don't know who I am _

Kurt has never touched him before. This time he does. Blaine flinches away. Kurt looks confused. He opens his mouth but there are no words only buzzing. Only buzzing. Blaine presses his palms into his eyes.

'Not real, not real, not real, not real…'

* * *

The room is dressed to make it feel like 'home', but whose home he is not certain. He sits on the couch across from the woman. She scribbles constantly on her pad of paper and looks at him, judging, over horn-rimmed glasses. Words have been thrown around like Depression and Schizophrenia –

_Why does everyone want to label me? What is the fascination with labels? Gay, straight, male, female, chair, table, orange, red, suitcase… So many labels._

Kurt is sitting next to him. He has not left his side since he appeared in Blaine's bedroom. Other people (Blaine's parents, for example) seem to be in on it – they fervently tell him that Kurt is real. Blaine knows better. He tolerates his presence because he cannot bring himself to make Kurt leave.

The lady is insisting that Blaine needs help – medicinal, perhaps – and Kurt is nodding in agreement and Blaine finds it hilarious.

'Okay, let's do it, let's do the drugs, let's do the chemical lobotomy, let's shut down the higher functions of my brain and perhaps I'll be a bit more fucking capable of living.'

He's not sure where that came from.

'I'm sorry.'

He does not feel sorry.

Kurt looks like he is going to cry and the woman keeps scribbling.

**You cannot do anything right.**

He keeps quiet.

* * *

They sit together in his room and Blaine tries to get on with his life whilst ignoring Kurt. Kurt is making if difficult. Blaine does not want to talk; he cannot talk – not until 16:30. He cannot recall why but the number is important. He glances at the clock – there are messages in the digits – he had tried to tell that woman about them, but she had not been able to grasp the truth.

**_16:20_**

Not long now.

It is a curious sensation – panic and excitement furiously writhing around like snakes in his gut.

The feel of a hand on his arm draws his attention.

Kurt is crying.

Blaine lets Kurt hug him.

He melts.

* * *

A/N: If you have been affected by anything here and would like to talk about it please contact me. My ask is always open. 3


	3. Chapter 3

For coolgleekazoid who prompted schizophrenic Blaine. Details: season 5 and also voices, screaming, crying, freaking out and hallucinating and nobody knows. Make it very blangsty.

**A/N**: Title is based on Sarah Kane's play _4:48 Psychosis_.

Please note that this fic contains detailed descriptions of Depression and Schizophrenia and may be triggering for some people.

* * *

It is like waking up – slow and hazy, but the thoughts that do break their way to the surface are strong and loud. The weight of _him_ is a comfort he does not deserve. The last day is blurred – the edges are unclear and he feels heavy because of it.

'You've seen the worst of me.'

'Yes.'

The reply is so quiet he is not certain he heard it.

'I'm so sorry, Kurt.'

'It's not your fault, baby.'

The hand running through his hair is soothing and Blaine lets himself _feel_.

'Everyone keeps saying that, but the more they say it the more it feels like it is my fault.'

'It's not. You can't help it, baby. We just want to help you.'

He feels a hot wetness hit his cheek and he knows Kurt is crying. His own eyes prick in response and he clings tighter.

'You're my last hope.'

'Honey…you don't need a friend right now – you need to listen to the doctor.'

'I love you, Kurt. I know…I think I…I say things I don't mean.'

'You do mean them – at the time. But it's not you. I know it's not you. This is you. Right now. This is you. Blaine?'

He shifts slightly so he can meet Kurt's eyes – pale and red-rimmed.

'Blaine, please take the meds. I know it is scary, but I'm scared too. I can't lose you. Not after everything. And I'm terrified. I feel like you're slipping away somewhere.'

'I'm so sorry.'

He reaches up and kisses him then – trying to communicate everything he is feeling but cannot find words for. Eventually they come up for air, their foreheads resting against each other's.

'I would do anything for you.'

'Please take the meds.'

He nods.

* * *

He has come to associate the smell of leather with anger and frustration. Kurt is always next to him so he tries to talk to Kurt instead of to the woman. He wishes she would put the damn pen down for five minutes. He feels like he is being studied.

**You are.**

'Blaine?'

He voice grates against him.

'Sorry?'

'I asked you what you gave your friends to make them so supportive? You said you have friends…'

He ignores her and turns to Kurt.

'I've always loved you. Even when I hated you.'

'I know, baby. I have always loved you too. You're doing so well – come on, try to talk to her, OK? She's here to help you.'

It takes everything he has not to snap at Kurt. He bites his tongue and nods then forces himself to face her.

'My friends? You want to know about my friends?'

'Do you want to talk about your friends, Blaine?'

'No.'

She scribbles.

'OK. Could you tell me how you see yourself, then? What are you like, Blaine?'

'What am I like? Just like my father.'

He misses Kurt's frown.

'Would your friends agree?'

'The only thing that's permanent is destruction – we are all going to disappear. I'm only trying to leave a mark that is more permanent than myself.'

'Your friends are that mark?'

'They echo me.'

She scribbles.

He stands.

'I can't stand your fucking scribbling. I bet you're scribbling when your husband fucks you, aren't you?'

'Blaine!'

Kurt grabs his hand and it is an anchor. He sits.

'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault.'

'Everyone keeps saying that!'

'Because it isn't.'

She puts her pen down.

'Perhaps I could record our sessions instead? Would that be better, Blaine?'

He looks to Kurt – the moon is shining in them and Blaine longs to see them sparkle again. He nods for Kurt. Always for Kurt.

* * *

The drugs make the darkness worse – he feels like there are ants and fleas and spiders crawling over, under, through his skin and he scratches, scratches, scratches until they bleed. Kurt holds him tight to try to stop him damaging himself, but he is strong. Kurt turns the light on and shows him that there is nothing there. Blaine sobs uncontrollably into Kurt's nightshirt and Kurt just holds him, holds him, holds him.

* * *

The first thing that stops is the voice. One day it simply is no longer there. The darkness persists however, but those voices come from inside so he finds it easier to ignore them. Most of the time.

He knows Kurt cannot stay with him – he should have gone back weeks ago, but a part of him, a selfish part of him, never wants to let go.

Kurt is never far from his side – much to Blaine's parents' relief. He knows that without Kurt, he would probably have killed himself by now. He will never tell anyone, but he knew exactly how he would do it. He had spent hours in discussions with the voice about the hows and whens. He knows now that it was just a symptom – but he remembers so clearly the despair, the confusion, and the pain. He misses it – not the agony, but the clarity of thoughts and feelings. The medications numb his mind. They numb his feelings. It is like living behind gauze – but it seems to make Kurt happy so he perseveres. He can sacrifice feeling for Kurt.

* * *

Each month is an improvement – Kurt went back to New York, of course, but he makes sure they Skype together almost every night. It took a long time for Kurt to trust Blaine to take his medication by himself. It was not that Blaine forgot, but sometimes the darkness distracted him, or convinced him that they were poison.

He knows he will never feel normal. He does not really remember what normal felt like – so he does not miss that. But he does miss "happiness". He _thinks_ he feels it – but he is not sure. He is not completely sure of anything these days but he is learning to get on with his life. He yearns for clarity though – to feel an extreme of some emotion. He gets glimpses during his dreams or amidst the passionate throws of sex – he feels alive then; wanted and secure. Entwined in a cage of slippery limbs and love.

Of course the bullying starts – never confrontational – they are all a little scared of him due to misunderstandings and myths surrounding his condition; they think he may go "nuts" on them or something. No, it is passive – whispers, rumours… He can never be completely certain what is true and what is in his head. So he chooses to ignore it. His friends defend his honour well enough without him.

* * *

'How are you feeling today, Blaine?'

'Scale of 1-10? About 6.'

She nods.

'Why do you think that is?'

He almost replies sarcastically – he cannot remember what 10 feels like; sometimes it feels like 10 is for other people. He does not deserve a 10. He stops himself and takes a breath. He gathers the fragments of his thoughts and looks at them critically.

'I guess… I'm struggling today. I didn't sleep well last night.'

'Tiredness always makes it harder.'

He nods.

'I can prescribe you something to help you sleep. Would that help, Blaine?'

'I hate taking what I'm already on.'

'I know. Does it feel like it is helping though?'

'Yes.'

He does not hesitate even though he is not certain – he is not certain about anything – he can see the difference in the way his friends look at him. In the way his family look at him. In Kurt. He sees himself reflected in them. He sees what they see - he sees the concern fading from their features. He sees how much better it makes them feel.

But it is not easy. It is never easy.

* * *

The first drug he had been put on was Sertraline (50mg) – his insomnia had steadily worsened, but in general he felt a lot better after taking it for a couple of weeks (after the original night terrors). It was Sam that voiced his concern though as Blaine lost over 17kgs whilst taking the drug – even Kurt had noticed Blaine's clothes hanging lose over Skype. So his medication had been changed to Zolpiclone (7.5mg). He slept like the dead and actually started to feel a little more positive until he developed a rash which resulted in his medication being switched to Melleril (50mg). Mellerill seemed to have little effect on him though, and Blaine started to feel disillusioned with drugs in general. He felt like an experiment and, upon voicing his displeasure, loudly, was switched onto Lofepramine (70mg, then 140mg, then 210mg). He gained back 12 of the lost 17kgs whilst on Lofepramine, however, he suffered noticeable short term memory loss and a return of the darkness so he was given Citalopram (20mg) to take with the Lofepramine. The resulting morning tremors resulted in scaring Blaine so badly that he stopped taking both medications. The withdrawal symptoms were noticed by all of his friends as well as his parents – it is difficult to mask dizziness and confusion, especially when one keeps falling over, fainting and walking out in front of cars…

A long talk with Kurt after Sam almost had a heart attack when he only just managed to save Blaine from becoming a bloody smear on the front of a school bus, resulted in Blaine coming clean about his disillusionment with medicine. He was terrified of the side-effects, but Kurt managed to convince him that they just had not yet found the right one for Blaine. He promised to keep trying.

Fluoxetine hydrochloride, trade name Prozac (20mg, then 40mg), made things a lot worse – his insomnia came back with a vengeance and he lost another 14kgs. This time, however, he gained a couple of things: severe anxiety (frequent attacks with no obvious trigger that often left him shaking so badly he had to lie down), and an inability to reach orgasm which ultimately resulted in a sudden rush of homicidal thoughts towards drug manufacturers and his doctor. He found himself too embarrassed to talk to Kurt (or _anyone_) about the side effects, but his doctor saw the not so subtle changes in Blaine's mood and took him off the drug replacing it with Thorazine (100mg).

Thorazine helped him sleep – he felt calmer and more in control again, and gradually his mood started to improve. However, the addition of Venlafaxine (75mg, then 150mg, then 225mg) to the mix did little to help – instead reintroducing Blaine to the joys of dizziness, headaches and low blood pressure.

He was close to losing it when she took him off Venlafaxine and tried to put him on Seroxat. He declined, as politely as he could, and she accused him of hypochondria when he tried to explain that "spasmodic blinking" and "severe memory loss" were things he could live very happily without.

So, while his friends were preparing for graduation, Blaine was going through hell. He no longer felt in control of his own body – his weight had yo-yoed so quickly he barely had any clothes that he felt comfortable in, and he was avidly aware that on his small frame, the loss of weight did not look good. Coupled with the drugs' effect on both his libido and sexual performance he feel utterly unattractive and disgusting by the time Kurt came to visit next.

* * *

His breakdown was inelegant – there was no gradual spiralling out of control, there was no screaming or crying or arguing. He simply broke and could not move. It had no obvious trigger that Blaine could see, other than months of continual ups-and-downs worsened by the side effects of a multitude of drugs and the apparent incompetence of so-called "health professionals". He stopped visiting his doctors. He stopped leaving the house. He stopped changing his clothes, or washing, or eating, or sleeping. He simply stopped.

That was how Kurt came to find him for the second time.

Blaine could not even bring himself to feel ashamed.

Kurt had forced him to shower and change assuring Blaine that it would help him feel better. He had then made him take his medicines reiterating that "taking them was better than not taking them at all". He had then dragged Blaine out for coffee, he had really no other idea what to do but he needed to get Blaine out of the house.

Blaine had resisted but Kurt had almost won out.

_Kurt always wins._

'I can't, Kurt. Please just let me be.'

'Be what, Blaine?'

'Strong.'

'And this is you being strong?'

'Yes.'

'Looks a lot like quitting.'

The words sting.

'You are so much better than this illness, Blaine. You're letting it win. You're doing so well and I'm so proud of you, but you have to keep fighting. You have to fight that bit harder.'

'Why?'

'Because I need you to.'

_Kurt always wins_.

* * *

The fresh summer air does help. The sunlight helps. He feels a little more free, a little more able to breathe. Kurt is warm by his side, and in that moment Blaine would do anything to erase the concern from his fiancé's features. He would do anything to erase the past months. To go back to _before._ But he cannot.

He takes the meds, he forces himself to eat three healthy square meals a day, he forces himself to get showered and dressed (even on days where he does not have to do anything). Slowly, slowly, slowly he watches time tick onwards.

Kurt is enthusiastic – he waxes lyrical about when Blaine will finally join him in New York. Blaine hesitates. Being with Kurt is everything to him, but is it healthy – his dependence on his fiancé?

_No._

_ Yes._

_ No._

Blaine withdraws a little – not completely, just enough to give himself some space. Some personal space. He takes time to do thinks for himself – read that book he put off because he had to study and he always felt guilty reading books that were not related to his courses during term time, listen to that album he had bought and ignored back when things were not so good… Little things.

The darkness is still there – on some level, it always has been – but he knows better now. He understands it a little more.

Gradually, gradually, gradually he begins to become himself again.

Gradually, gradually, gradually he begins to like himself again.

Gradually.

* * *

He holds off moving in with Kurt, Santana and Rachel until he is certain, absolutely 100% certain, that he is doing it for the right reasons. When he explained to Kurt _why_ he was waiting he had expected an argument, but instead, he only received support. In hindsight he should have known that Kurt would support him. Kurt had always supported him.

_Not that you give him reasons to._

He had moved in on a brilliantly sunny day – the girls had thoughtfully left the boys alone while Kurt helped Blaine unpack his life. He had marvelled at the way his things nestled in next to, and among, Kurt's things had made him feel. It was just _right_. It felt so perfect - homely.

_This is what home feels like._

It was not easy. In no regard was it easy – switching doctors to one in New York was the first hurdle. It was not that it was difficult to do – it was that Blaine and his first doctor did not get on. The story was similar with the second, and third. It was starting to get him down and it took Kurt's questioning "are you sure it is actually about the doctors, Blaine?" to get him to actually think about what was going on with him. He was scared. Until the reality of having a doctor in New York had settled in he had managed to almost convince himself that he had left that part behind in Ohio.

_Kurt is always right._

Eventually, though, he learned to accept that part of himself. It took accepting Santana's quips about mental health, and coming clean from the get-go with his peers in college, but he did it. Hiding was no longer an option – hiding had never been an option.

But he is getting better.

There are slips and trips and falls and arguments that get downright _nasty_, but he is getting better.

He has friends.

_What do you offer…_

He has _friends_ and Kurt.

Always Kurt.

* * *

**A/N**: If you have been affected by anything here and would like to talk about it please contact me. My ask is always open.

That is probably the end of this fic - but I am always open to prompts so ask away! Love, always. x-X-x


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